III. SUMMER IN AUVERGNE

The sundawn fills the land

Full as a feaster's hand

Fills full with bloom of bland

Bright wine his cup;

Flows full to flood that fills

From the arch of air it thrills

Those rust-red iron hills

With morning up.

Dawn, as a panther springs,

With fierce and fire-fledged wings

Leaps on the land that rings

From her bright feet

Through all its lava-black

Cones that cast answer back

And cliffs of footless track

Where thunders meet.

The light speaks wide and loud

From deeps blown clean of cloud

As though day's heart were proud

And heaven's were glad;

The towers brown-striped and grey

Take fire from heaven of day

As though the prayers they pray

Their answers had.

Higher in these high first hours

Wax all the keen church towers,

And higher all hearts of ours

Than the old hills’ crown,

Higher than the pillared height

Of that strange cliff-side bright

With basalt towers whose might

Strong time bows down.

And the old fierce ruin there

Of the old wild princes’ lair

Whose blood in mine hath share

Gapes gaunt and great

Toward heaven that long ago

Watched all the wan land's woe

Whereon the wind would blow

Of their bleak hate.

Dead are those deeds; but yet

Their memory seems to fret

Lands that might else forget

That old world's brand;

Dead all their sins and days;

Yet in this red clime's rays

Some fiery memory stays

That sears their land.